Chapter 18
At twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and the
coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the
hard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must
otherwise have it discovered to him abruptly.
The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark
window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the
first time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and he
was struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged the fine
old man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; his
complexion looked dull and withered; there was a swollen ridge under his
eyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the
present, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer a
sense, but a memory.
He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside him
in silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to swell at this unspoken
sympathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his
cheeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood were for Anthony.
Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He
could not speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said something
which might lead on to the cruel words that must be spoken.
At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, 'I'm very weak, Maynard—God help me! I didn't think anything would unman me in this way; but I'd built everything on that lad. Perhaps I've been wrong in not forgiving my sister. She lost one of her sons a little while ago. I've been too proud and obstinate.'
'We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough except by suffering,'
said Maynard; 'and God sees we are in need of suffering, for it is
falling more and more heavily on us. We have a new trouble this morning.'
'Tina?' said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously—'is Tina ill?'
'I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very much agitated
yesterday—and with her delicate health—I am afraid to think what turn
the agitation may have taken.'
'Is she delirious, poor dear little one?'
'God only knows how she is. We are unable to find her. When Mrs. Sharp
went up to her room this morning, it was empty. She had not been in bed. Her hat and cloak were gone. I have had search made for her everywhere—in the house and garden, in the park, and—in the water. No one has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven o'clock in the evening.'
While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher's eyes, which were eagerly
turned on him, recovered some of their old keenness, and some sudden
painful emotion, as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across his already
agitated face, like the shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the
pause came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil's arm, and said in a lower
voice,—'Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony?'
'She did.'
Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between his reluctance to
inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christopher, and his determination that
no injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christopher's eyes were
still fixed on him in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards the
ground, while he tried to find the words that would tell the truth least
cruelly.
'You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina,' he said at length. 'I
must tell you now, for her sake, what nothing but this should ever have
caused to pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions
which, in his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his marriage
was talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover.'
Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard's arm, and looked away from
him. He was silent for some minutes, evidently attempting to master
himself, so as to be able to speak calmly.
'I must see Henrietta immediately,' he said at last, with something of
his old sharp decision; 'she must know all; but we must keep it from
every one else as far as possible. My dear boy,' he continued in a kinder
tone, 'the heaviest burthen has fallen on you. But we may find her yet; we must not despair: there has not been time enough for us to be certain. Poor dear little one! God help me! I thought I saw everything, and was stone-blind all the while.'